Author's Note: This chapter is a birthday gift for Annys, and a get well gift for Bookwyrm
(the bugs are just for you, Kathie!). Thank you for sticking with
me when I'm slow to write, and for encouraging me when I get stuck.
I hope you all enjoy the chapter!

-- Chevy

*** *** ***

C

hapter 14: Into the Open

The
howl of orcish laughter sounded in his ears, and the stink of cooking
flesh choked him. A child sobbed hysterically in the darkness.
He snarled a protest and tried to throw off the horned hands that
gripped him, but his captors were too strong for him. They dragged
him remorselessly closer to the fire and the foul pot that bubbled
over it. A knife scraped from its scabbard, and cold iron touched
his throat.

"Time
to spill your guts on the floor," a hideously familiar voice
hissed in his ear. "Die well now, little soldier!"

He uttered
a furious cry and tore his arm from the Orc's
clasp. As he staggered back from the pot, his wounded leg crumpled
beneath him. Blood ran hot over his skin. Pain seared through
him, dragging a scream from his tortured throat.

Boromir awoke with a gasp of pain and shock,
his leg throbbing and his body damp with sweat. For a dreadful
moment, he did not know where he was, and the laughter of the
Orcs still rang in his ears, squeezing
his heart with fear. Then recognition seeped through the horror
of his dream, and he knew that he was safe in Edoras.

Collapsing back into his pillow, he uttered a
soft groan and pressed one hand to his breast, where the Star
of the Dúnedain hung on its leather
thong. Beneath the gem, his heart pounded frantically and the
breath sobbed in his lungs. He lay very still, listening to the
sleeping quiet of the house, waiting for the fear to pass, but
the pain of his wound only grew and his pulse quickened yet more.
He had fallen asleep with the leg as comfortable as Arwen's
ministrations could make it, the wound cleaned and dressed with
honey, left uncovered as Aragorn had instructed, the blankets
held away from it by a framework of wooden sticks that formed
a kind of tent. Now, as he moved restlessly in the grip of his
pain, he felt the sheet rub against his torn flesh and a sharp,
stabbing pain in the wound itself.

Pushing himself up onto his elbows, he freed
one hand and flung aside the heavy blankets that covered him.
Cold air flowed over his body, making him shiver as he reached
for the source of his pain. His fingers brushed wood, knocking
aside a piece of the collapsed framework that lay upon his open
wound, and he gave a startled cry as a fresh agony shot through
him.

He lurched upright and
clamped one hand hard to the muscle of his thigh, leaning all
of his weight upon it. With his head bowed, breathing fast through
clenched teeth, he struggled to swallow the panic and roiling
sickness within him. The pain of it was terrible, but he had grown
almost accustomed to it in these weeks of ceaseless torture. It
had been his constant companion through the long trial of his
captivity, and now it was a reminder to him that he had indeed
survived, that he could still hurt and bleed and weep with all
the race of Men, even if he shed no tears.

At this moment, he wanted desperately to weep,
or to shout until he woke the house and brought Merry or Gil running
to him, but pride and stubbornness held him silent. He did not
know why all his friends had left him tonight, but he scorned
to call for them like a frightened child, no matter how he shivered
with cold or burned with pain. He was a soldier of Gondor, the
son of Denethor, veteran of many wars, brother-in-arms to King
Elessar, slayer of Orcs and leader of Men…

The litany calmed him, and he slowly straightened
his back, easing his death grip on his burning, throbbing leg.
Resting both hands lightly on the grotesque swelling of his thigh,
he let the cold of his touch soothe the pain. The window stood
open, and a bitter wind off the plains blew steadily through it,
chilling him to the bone, but his leg still felt hot beneath his
hands. He eased them cautiously downward, closer to the wound
itself, hoping to cool it still more, until he felt his fingers
slide in melted honey.

A queasy mixture of disgust and curiosity rose
in him, as he hesitated with his hands poised just above the wound
and wondered what he would find if he dared touch it. In all the
weeks since his injury, this was the first time he had found himself
alone and unguarded, with the wound uncovered and his hands unbound.
He was free to examine the wound, to measure its full extent for
himself, without Aragorn there to chide him for his lack of faith.
All he need do was touch it, if he could summon the courage to
face this fresh horror. Boromir of Gondor had never lacked courage,
he reminded himself stoutly, and setting his teeth against the
bile that rose in his throat, he forced his hands to move.

His fingers skimmed lightly over skin and muscle,
tracing the contours of the wound. He paid no heed to the sticky,
sweet-smelling honey that quickly covered his hands, nor
to the pain that burned hot at his touch. All
his mind was focused on seeing the ruin of his leg through
his fingertips.

It felt to him as if a great dollop of flesh
had been scooped out of his leg, leaving a hole larger than his
fist. He could not tell how deep it went, as even he, valiant
soldier of Gondor, did not dare to reach inside the gaping cavern,
but his mind conjured the ghastly white glimmer of naked bone
in its depths. Beneath the skin, the hole widened even further,
the rotten flesh and tissue cut away to leave a collar of skin,
taut and sunken, with no meat to support it. The lips of the wound
were raw and painful where they had been both torn and cut repeatedly,
and they had not yet begun to thicken with scar tissue.

In his many battles, Boromir had seen every kind
of destruction that steel or iron could wreak
upon vulnerable flesh. He had watched men die in screaming agony,
held their hands while battlefield surgeons hacked off their limbs,
and bound up their wounds when no surgeon was at hand. He had
pulled orc-blades from their guts and
assured them that they would live to fight another day as they
bled into the dirt. And he had wept over the mangled bodies of
those comrades who had not lingered to hear his comforting lies.
Now, as he finally grasped the enormity of his own injury, he
marveled that he yet lived to feel the pain of it. By rights,
he should have died in the Orc den when
the fever took him. Only the questionable mercy of Uglúk
and healing hands of the King had spared him. But could Aragorn's
skill keep him whole, as well?

His hand went instinctively to the gem that hung
round his neck. He clutched it in trembling, honey-smeared fingers
and muttered, "Ah, Aragorn! Tell me again that this is a
wound you can heal. Tell me that I will stand at your side once
more."

No answer came to him, but he felt himself comforted
nonetheless. Dragging the snarled blankets up to cover himself
as best he could, he sank back on his pillow and held tightly
to the Star that had guided him through so many dark places. A
reminder, Aragorn had called it, of his love and his promise.
Boromir did not doubt his love and needed no outward symbol of
it, but he found it hard to believe in the promise just now. The
stone steadied him, and the certainty that Aragorn would come
for him, whether or not Boromir could stand on his own feet to
welcome him, took the edge off of his fear.

He could not banish the fear all together, nor
make himself comfortable enough to sleep, but he could wait out
the long watches of the night with Aragorn's promise warm and
solid in his hand.

* * *

The sound of the door opening broke the long
quiet and dragged a sigh of relief from Boromir. He knew it was
Gil before he heard her familiar step on the flagstones; Gil woke
him each morning, with her pottering and fussing and straightening
of blankets, then she stoked up the fire and brought him the breakfast
he did not want but was obliged to choke down to please her. Cold
and weary as he was after his sleepless night, with his leg burning
and his head aching, he wanted nothing more than to hear his squire's
flat voice scolding him and to feel her deft hands settling him
comfortably once more. He would even eat without a battle, so
grateful was he that she had come at last.

"Is that you, Gil?" he called softly,
trying to mask the rough edge of exhaustion in his voice.

"Aye, my lord."

"I am glad you are come."

Gil moved toward the bed, but halted abruptly.
In the startled silence, Boromir fancied that she had guessed
all that had passed in the night, simply by looking at the mess
he had made of the bed. Giving a low grunt of disgust or distress
– he could not tell which – she dropped the load of linens she
carried on the foot of the bed and strode over to the window.

"What…"

Gil swung the shutters closed with a resounding
thud, drowning out his words, then she grabbed an iron poker from
its hook beside the hearth and jabbed it into the glowing embers
of the fire.

"Gil! Stop that at once. Open the window."

"I beg your pardon, my lord, but I cannot."
She threw a heavy log into the fire, sending sparks flying and
snapping.

Boromir grimaced at the smoke that billowed into
the room and demanded, "Are you trying to choke me, girl?"

"The cold will make you ill again,
lord, if it has not already. You have a feverish look. I must
fetch Lady Arwen."

"One does not fetch
the Queen, as if she were a serving girl!"

Gil did not seem to hear him. She hesitated at
the door, calling back to him in a commanding tone, "Do not
move, my lord."

"Confound it, Gil…" But she whisked
out of the room without paying any heed to him, leaving him to
fume helplessly and tug at his stubborn, honey-smeared bedding.

A moment later, he heard her pounding on another
door nearby. Voices spoke in the hallway, too low for him to catch
their words, but he recognized Merry's
voice. Then the halfling came pattering into his room and up to the bed.

"Hullo, Boromir. Gil said you had a bad
night." Merry sounded worried, and Boromir silently cursed
Gil for upsetting him. "Can I do anything for you?"

"Be a good fellow and open the window."

"I will not. This room is freezing! And
the wind is blowing straight off the mountains, bringing winter
with it."

"I cannot breathe with all this smoke."

"Well, you must, for a while, anyway,"
Merry said matter-of-factly. "You're positively blue with
cold! What have you been doing?"

Boromir tried to smile, but his face did not
want to cooperate. Merry began tugging at his blankets, trying
to disentangle them from his limbs, and jarred his injured leg.
Boromir ground his teeth in pain, muttering, "I am beset
with meddlesome nurses. Will you leave it be?"

"I'm sorry." Merry immediately quit
pulling and said, remorsefully, "I only wanted to get you
warm."

"You look dreadful. I should never have
left you, but Arwen was certain that you would sleep through the night undisturbed.
She and Éomer King seemed very anxious
for me to sleep in my own room, though why I don't know."

This time, Boromir managed a proper smile. "Perhaps
they fear you are endangering your own health in worrying over
mine."

"Humph," Merry snorted. "I can
sleep as well in here as in my own room; these chairs are nearly
as big as a proper hobbit bed. And you would not have spent the
night cold and in pain, if I had been by you."

Boromir privately agreed with the halfling,
sure that Merry's presence would have
kept his nightmares at bay, but he did not say as much aloud.
Lifting one hand to find the smaller one that still clutched a
fold of the coverlet, he said, "You cannot be with me every
moment, Little One, and I would not ask it of you."

"Well, one of us can. That is why we came,
after all, Pippin and I. To help."
The hobbit's hand turned in his, returning the fond pressure of
his fingers. Then Merry pulled sharply away from him and demanded,
"What is that on your hand?"

"Honey."

"Ah, Boromir, what have you done?!"

"Naught but what I must, Merry." He
tightened his hand on the halfling's,
moved by the raw distress in his voice, and murmured, "I
had to see it for myself."

Merry did not answer him at once, and when he
did speak, his voice was thick with unshed tears. "I know.
I only wish you had waited to let it heal a bit more."

If it heals at all, Boromir thought, and something
in his face must have betrayed his doubts to his friend, for Merry
insisted, "Aragorn says that you will walk again, and I believe
him. He has never lied to me."

"Nor to me."

"Then he will heal your wound and have you
on your feet again, as he has promised! But you must follow his
instructions and take care not to undo all his hard work."

"Wise words, and kindly meant," a light,
musical voice called from the doorway, and Arwen
swept into the room, bringing the scent of fresh woodlands and
spring rains with her. She also brought the smell of medicines
and boiled bandages, not so pleasant to Boromir's mind, but not
unexpected either. In recent days, he had come to view Aragorn's
gracious Queen with a distrust bordering on dismay, as her arrival
heralded painful treatments, unpalatable meals and unwelcome orders.

"It would be well if you heeded them,"
she added, as she approached the bed and set down the tray she
carried on the table beside it. "Good morning, my lord Steward."

"My lady," Boromir said, with wary
courtesy. He could hear more footsteps bustling about at the hearth
and guessed the Gil had come with the Queen, but he did not vouchsafe
her a greeting. All his attention was fixed upon Arwen
and the atrocities she planned to visit upon him in the name of
healing. "I should skin Gil for summoning you at such an
hour to no purpose."

"Do not blame Gil." She stooped over
his leg, gazing intently at the great hole in it, and said, a
smile glimmering in her voice, "She did not put her fingers
in your wound or smear you with honey."

"I passed a restless night," he growled
through clenched teeth, as she probed his wound, testing the soundness
of the flesh around it, "and snarled the blankets about my
leg. When I awoke… ah!"

Arwen left off prodding
him at his cry and said, "The flesh is torn here. It is bleeding
still."

"It was those confounded sticks you used
to hold up the blankets. I moved in my sleep and crushed them
into my leg."

Her cool handed rested on his thigh, where the
swelling and heat were fiercest, and for the moment her touch
was soothing. "I am sorry, Boromir. I meant to give you ease,
not to cause you greater pain."

"It was the dream," he muttered, embarrassed
by her saddened tone. "It addled my wits, or I would not
have touched the wound at all."

"Well, you have done yourself no lasting
injury, and a simple cleaning will keep the wound from infection.
For today, I will bandage it, so you may rest and move about,
unhampered."

Boromir wanted to ask of her what she had meant
by move about, but Arwen
did not leave him time or breath for conversation. With all the
cool authority of an Elf Princess, a Queen among Men and a healer
combined, she swept her helpers into motion and set about tormenting
Boromir for his own good. He had grown used to the twice-daily
cleansing of his wound and had surrendered to the necessity of
it, but acceptance did not lessen the pain or the humiliation
of being reduced to no more than a useless lump of meat, scoured
and dosed and dressed and bandaged, bundled about by firm, efficient
hands, while his body trembled and his mind reeled into gibbering
darkness.

He came back to himself to find a stack of clean
pillows supporting his back and warm blankets tucked close about
him. A bandage covered his wound, and the agony in his leg was
fading to a dull, insistent ache. Merry sat on the bed to his
right, wiping the last of honey from his fingers with a warm,
wet cloth. Boromir breathed a sigh of relief and pressed his free
hand to his brow in an effort to force back the pain that pounded
in his skull. His fingers still shook slightly, but he took another
calming breath and willed them to steadiness.

"Rest now, Boromir," the Queen said,
her voice low and soothing. "Gil has gone to fetch your breakfast,
and when you have eaten, you may sleep the morning through undisturbed."

She sank down on the edge of the mattress and
clasped his wrist to draw his hand away from his face. Boromir
did not resist her, but let her take his hand in both of her own
and rest it on her knee. He turned to find her with his bandaged
gaze, puzzled and moved by the gentleness of her touch. He had
known Arwen for many years now, but
he had never known her in this mood.

"Get you to your own breakfast, Master Perian," she
said lightly, "and shut the door, I pray you. I will keep
the Steward company until Gil returns."

Merry obediently hopped down from the bed and
left the room, calling a farewell to Boromir as he went. The door
closed firmly behind him, and Boromir was alone with Lady Arwen.
He fixed her with the steady regard that seemed to unnerve most
who faced it, and waited for her to break the silence.

"You have seen the wound," she said
at last.

"Aye," he answered, his own voice sounding
harsh following so soon on the Queen's musical tones.

"It is terrible, but it is not beyond Aragorn's
skill to heal." He said nothing, and Arwen's
voice grew sad as she continued, "Take the halfling's
words to heart, and do not despair. Your King and brother would
not deceive you."

"Unless he first deceives
himself. Tell me true, my lady, could you heal such a wound
and make the leg sound again?"

Her voice grew sadder still. "I could not.
But I have not my father's gift for healing, nor
Aragorn's. I am but his nurse and helpmate."

"And I am but a soldier, who has watched
Men die – strong, valiant Men – of lesser wounds than this. I
have no strength left in me, lady, and my valor is spent. How
is it that I yet live?"

"You live, because you are too stubborn
to die, and because valor such as yours is never spent."

Boromir smiled wearily. "You speak as Aragorn
teaches you."

"I speak from my own heart, of what I see
with my own eyes. I have only begun to learn the ways of Men,
'tis true, but this I know beyond doubt. That in all the race
of Men, there is none so valiant as Boromir.
Greater men there are, and wiser, those more just and fair, those
keener of eye," she chuckled softly, the sound brimming with
affection, "and stouter of limb. But in stubbornness and
valor, there is none to match him."

"Lady…" he began, uncomfortably, but
she overrode him.

"You survived your captivity, and you slew
the Orcs," she said firmly, "and were all your life
besides an empty vessel, with no deed of renown to fill it, this
alone would earn you my undying gratitude and respect. Boromir,
do you know aught of my mother's history?"

His discomfort increased tenfold, and only through
a supreme effort of will did he prevent himself from squirming
away from the Queen and her searching questions. "Aragorn
has told me a little," he replied.

"My mother, Celebrían,
the daughter of Galadriel and Celeborn,
was waylaid by orcs when she traveled through the MistyMountains between Lothlórien and Imladris. My brothers
rescued her and bore her home, but the torment she suffered in
the Orc dens was always with her. It shadowed her mind and heart,
casting her into darkness even as she walked in the clear sunlight,
until she could no longer bear to remain within sight of those
cursed mountains or in the land where sorrow dwelt. And so she
took ship from the Havens and sailed into the West. She left all
that she most loved and fled Middle-earth, rather than endure
the memory of what those beasts, those Yrch, had done to her."

"We Men cannot flee our torments in such
a way. We must endure them, or die."

"Or take up your sword and strike them down.
Destroy them." The smile returned to her voice for a fleeting
moment, like the sun peeping from behind a cloud. "Burn them
as they sleep."

"The Orcs burn;
the memories of them do not. I do not think the less of your mother
for escaping them where she could."

"Nor do I. Please
understand me, Boromir. I do not speak of these things to burden
you with the sorrows of my younger days, but to show you how deep
is my gladness at the victory you have
won. Elf though I am, no Man and no soldier, still I see clearly
enough into your soldier's heart to know that only by slaying
the Orcs and bringing the child Borlas
alive from the darkness has the valiant Steward of Gondor earned
the right to live in hope again. It is a victory that was denied
my own mother, and all her kindred suffered with her for it. I
rejoice that you and all who love you will be spared that same
kind of suffering. And I do not doubt that you will once again
walk in the clear sunlight, unshadowed
by that evil which you have conquered."

Masking his discomfiture with sour humor, he
said dryly, "Do you not mean crawl
in the sunlight? Or perhaps hobble?"

Arwen laughed outright
at that, the sound filling the room with silver light. "Oh,
faithless Boromir! Well, then, let us begin with the smallest
of steps. Let us say that you will sit
in the sunlight, and this very afternoon."

Boromir gaped at her for a moment, then
demanded, "Do you mean to drag the sun into my chamber?"

"Nay, I mean to drag you out of it, if the
weather holds and the sun still shines at midday."

A thunderous frown darkened his face, and he
spoke through gritted teeth. "You will not! I'll not be carted
about like a helpless cripple!"

"Certainly, my lord Steward, you may walk
out of the Hall upon your own two feet, if that is your desire."

"You know that I cannot!"

"Well, mayhap not this day," Arwen
agreed calmly, "drained as you are from the journey and a
poor night's sleep, but ere the week is out I will have you up
and walking."

Something about her tone of serene assurance
robbed Boromir of words. He could feel his mouth opening and closing
in a foolish manner, and recalling himself to a semblance of dignity,
he shut it with a snap. What was Arwen about to taunt him in this way? Had she some purpose
for angering and humiliating him? Or did she yet know so little
of Men that she thought him amused by her banter?

"I am in earnest, Boromir," she said
quietly, her voice now low and firm, with no hint of laughter
in it. "I do not speak so to torment you with what cannot
be. I speak only of what you must do, if you would find both strength
and health again. Your weeks in the darkness beneath the mountains
have sapped you of both, leaving your body weakened and your bones
brittle. The warmth and power of the sun will speed your healing.
And only by forcing them to bear your weight can you strengthen
your bones. You must walk now, if you would walk at all."

Boromir heard her in rigid silence, his face
a frowning mask, while his mind reeled under this fresh assault.
He did not doubt her word. She was Aragorn's lady, Elrond's daughter,
and a healer of some skill in her own right. What he doubted was
his courage to face the challenge she laid before him.

"Do not dwell upon tomorrow's trials,"
she urged. "For today, you need only rest and enjoy the touch
of the sun, so long denied you. And put your trust in Aragorn."

"This is his command?"

"Aye."

"Then I have no choice but to obey."

The door opened upon his choked, reluctant words,
and Gil came through it with a laden tray.

"Yet more of my King's commands?" he
said, waving a hand in Gil's direction and trying valiantly not
to sound as bitter as he felt. "Enough food for anéored, and I must eat every last crumb, though I burst
in the process."

"Aye."Arwen let go his hand and stooped over the bed to give his
pillows a final plump. "Every last crumb, and do not think
of giving it to the halflings. I will
hear of it from Gil, if you do."

He made a disgruntled noise in his throat and
muttered, "Setting my own squire to spy upon me. I thought
the Eldar were above such stratagems."

Arwen merely laughed
and drifted toward the door on her light, nearly soundless feet.
"All Meduseld is full of my spies, my lord Steward. Do not hope
to deceive me. I will leave you to Gil's care, now. Rest well."

She swept out of the chamber, taking the smell
of Rivendell with her, and Boromir sank back into his heaped
pillows with a small sigh. He was deadly tired, his body full
of pain and his mind crowded with shadows. While his reason told
him that Arwen was right and he should
rest in the quiet warmth of his room, the smell of smoke and flame
troubled him even when awake. He feared to brave sleep again and
the haunting of his dreams.

Gil approached the bed with her tray and set
it on the chest to his left. It smelled innocent enough, and he
even thought he detected a whiff of hot porridge mingled with
the scent of tea brewing. He smiled faintly at Gil and murmured,
"Have you brought me porridge today?"

She placed a wooden bowl in his hands, waiting
until he had closed his fingers firmly about it before she let
go. "'Tis more fit for a drudge's meal than a Steward's.
But as you will eat nothing else without a battle…"

"Bless you, Gil. Now, if you will open the
window shutters…"

Uttering a sour, disapproving grunt, she ignored
his request and plunked down in the chair beside the bed, preparing
to do Arwen's bidding and watch him eat every bite of his breakfast.

Boromir lifted the bowl to his lips and took
a judicious sip of the thick, warm, fragrant mixture. "You
need not stare at me so. I am behaving." He took another,
larger mouthful, swallowed it, and said, "Will you not reward
me for my obedience? Talk to me. Help me to stay awake."

"Talk of what, lord?"

"Tell me a tale, one of those Elvish
stories Ioreth taught you. Or sing a
song."

"I do not sing, lord, as you well know,
and I do not tell Elvish tales. But I
will not let you fall asleep until you have finished your meal."

"It is not my meal that worries me. It is
after I am done with eating and my body betrays me out of weariness."
A frown darkened his face for a moment, as the memory of his dreams
in the night came to him. "I would not sleep."

"You must, my lord, or you will not heal."

"Enough!" he snapped, only just controlling
the urge to throw his bowl at her head as frustrated rage boiled
up in him. "Am I naught but a mass of injuries and illnesses,
to be coddled and jollied and poked and dosed, until I run mad?
Must every breath I take be measured by how it will hinder or
speed my healing? I thought you my squire, not my wet nurse!"

Even as the words left his mouth, Boromir knew
that he was acting out of a blind anger that had naught to do
with Gil, and that he was basely attacking one who could not defend
herself against him. Shame swept over him, cooling his anger on
the instant and cutting off his tirade. He turned a frowning look
in Gil's direction, sensing in her utter stillness and silence
the depth of her hurt.

For a moment, he struggled to master himself,
then he spoke in a voice roughened by remorse. "I did
not mean it, Gil. You know I did not."

Still she said nothing, and Boromir's chagrin
deepened. In all the years Gil had spent at his side, he could
not remember a time when he had lashed out at her in such a way
or when she had taken his flares of temper so much to heart. Was
he indeed going mad from all his weeks of imprisonment, first
by his chains and then by his injuries? Or had Gil forgotten what
he was during his absence, lost her armour,
become vulnerable in ways he had not yet learned to see? Whatever
the truth of it, he had hurt the most loyal and devoted of his
friends.

He set the bowl on his lap and held out his hand
to her. "Forgive me, Gil. I should not have spoken so."

"You may speak as you please, my lord Steward,"
she said, in her flattest and emptiest voice.

"Nay, do not give me leave to abuse you."
Still he held out his hand to her, waiting for her to take it
and accept his apology. "Please, Gil. I am sorry."

A cold, stiff hand rested lightly on his upturned
palm, and he clasped it, painfully aware of how thin and weak
his own fingers were in contrast to Gil's.

"You should know better than to pay heed
to my tempers," he said, quietly.

Gil drew in an audible breath, her fingers twitching
slightly in his grasp, then asked in
the same uncertain voice he had heard when he first awoke to find
her beside him, "Why will you not sleep, my lord?"

"Stone walls and the stink of smoke bring
me evil dreams." He tried to smile, but it slipped badly
awry. "Voices hold the dreams at bay, and the music of the
stars. The stars do not sing within these walls, so I must rely
on my friends."

He felt her begin to rise from her seat. "I
will fetch Master Merry to you."

"Nay." He
tightened his hold on her hand, drawing her back into her chair.
"Your voice is as welcome to me as Merry's.
Sit with me, I pray you, and lighten the hours with your company."

"As you will, my lord."

He let go her hand and lifted his bowl again.
"Very good. You sound like my squire again. Now tell me
of your journey from Gondor, while I eat this most excellent porridge."

A small, resigned sigh answered him, and Gil
began to talk in her dry, infinitely familiar way of her long,
painful, humiliating ride. Hiding a smile behind his raised bowl,
Boromir settled in to enjoy her tale.

*** *** ***

The touch of the sun was warm and
welcome on his face, just as Arwen had
promised, and Boromir felt himself relax as he had not in countless
days. He sat on the hilltop terrace, close by the parapet on the
western side of the Hall, his chair turned to catch the full warmth
of the sun as it slid down the sky to the west. Rain had pounded
the fields of Rohan for many days, and
the dampness of the wind told Boromir that more rain was coming,
but for today, the clouds had blown away and the pale autumn sun
shone brightly.

The strain of getting from his bed to this chair
had frayed Boromir's temper to the breaking point and drained
his body of all its meager strength, but now that he was here,
he was glad that Arwen had not yielded
to his threats and left him in his stifling chamber. Borlas sat beside him, and while the child did not cough so
much or so hard as before, Boromir could
still hear the breath rattle in his chest. Neither boy nor man
had much strength or inclination for talk, and they sat in companionable
silence, wrapped in thick furs against the cold, savoring the
taste of the clean wind and the open sky.

Bare feet pattered on the flagstones, heralding
the arrival of the halflings. Pippin
came first in a burst of energy and chatter.

"Hullo, Boromir," he said, "So
they have let you out at last, I see."

"Carried me out, against my will,"
Boromir corrected him, smiling to take the complaint from his
words. "Then left me to the mercy of impertinent
halflings."

Pippin laughed. "You will be glad enough
of our coming, when you see what Merry has brought you."

Merry, coming up more slowly behind Pippin, now
stepped up to the parapet and set something down with the grate
of metal on stone.

"What have you there, Merry?" Boromir
asked.

"A gift from the lady
Arwen, to drive out the cold." A moment later,
Boromir felt a light touch on his arm, and he obediently drew
it from beneath the furs to accept what Merry brought him. "The
cup is hot. Do not drop it."

Boromir only curled his hand more firmly about
the silver goblet and smiled at the marvelous scent that wafted
to his nose. Mulled wine. "Oh, most noble hobbits," he said, lifting
the cup in a salute before he drank, "I am glad indeed of
your coming."

"There is a cup here for you, too, Borlas,"
Merry said. "Drink it while it's nice and hot. It will ease
the tightness in your chest."

"My thanks," the boy whispered roughly.

"I saw your brother off with the King's
company," Pippin remarked to Borlas.
"He looked very fine in his soldier's gear, though I thought
it strange that he rode with Faramir's Rangers and not with the Tower guard, when he was
dressed in black and silver."

"Prince Faramir has taken him into the White
Company." Borlas paused to catch
his breath, then added, "He is very happy."

"Yes, he always loved Prince Faramir and
must be glad to serve under his standard at last. Bergil
and I are old friends, you know. We met during the dark times
of the Great War."

Boromir turned his attention from this exchange,
certain that Borlas would be well entertained
and Pippin kept out of trouble for a little while, to find Merry.
The halfling was standing at the parapet
close by Boromir's chair, and Boromir guessed that he was leaning
out over the stonework to peer down at the city and the fields
below. He sipped his hot wine in silence for a moment, giving
Merry time with his own thoughts, then he heard the hobbit
sigh.

"What troubles you, Little One?" he
asked.

"I was remembering the last time we stood
at this parapet together." Merry turned from the view below
to face him and spoke in a sad, subdued tone, "It seems a
very long time ago, and yet so much the same. Are you wishing
you could follow Aragorn to war, as you did the last time?"

"Wishing?" Boromir smiled faintly.
"In a small, secret corner of my mind, perhaps. But it
is no more than a wish, and I would not break my word to Aragorn,
even were I able to sit a horse or wield a sword."

"I'm glad you do not mean to go," Merry
murmured, "for I would have to go with you, and I have had
my fill of war."

"That is reason enough for me to stay quietly
in Rohan," Boromir said gently.

Merry said nothing, and Boromir regarded him
thoughtfully with his bandaged gaze, fancying he could see the
halfling's cheerful face puckered in
a frown.

"It worries you, my tame acceptance of Aragorn's
commands. You would have me storm and rage and chafe at my confinement,
burning to ride forth to glory and prove myself upon the field
of battle."

"I would be less afraid for you, if you
did."

Boromir dropped his blind eyes to the cup in
his hands, rolling it between his palms absently as he sought
for the words to ease his friend's fears. Before he could find
those words, Merry spoke again, his voice
soft and edged with pain.

"You never speak of it."

"Speak of what? My captivity?
Of the whips and chains, the cold and the stench, the screams
of dying men? The less said of them the better, I deem."

"How did you survive it?" Merry asked
in a haunted whisper.

Boromir uttered a grim laugh and retorted, "Our
good Queen would have it that I am too stubborn to die."
The halfling gave a doleful sniff, and Boromir dropped his caustic
tone, reaching out to find his friend and crying, "My dear
Merry! Do not weep for things past and done."

"I can't help it. When I think of you in
that dreadful place, it all comes back to me – the coldness and
horror of my dreams, only worse than before, because now the dread
has a shape and a name. I do not sleep at night, for fear I'll
dream again and see Uglúk and Dúrbhak
and their great stewpot."

The memory of his own dream rose like a cold
shadow in Boromir's mind, and he stirred uncomfortably in his
chair, trying to dispel it with a jolt of pain from his leg.

Merry caught his movement and must have read
his thoughts in his face, for he asked softly, "Is that what
you dreamed of last night?"

"The nightmares will pass, as they did before.
It needs only time," Boromir assured him, though his lurking
doubt sounded plain in his own ears.

"Until they do, we'll sit together through
the night hours, as we used to, and hold off each other's dreams."

"Aye." He
smiled his gratitude at the halfling.
"And when I am strong enough to walk the distance from my
bed to this terrace, with only your shoulder for support, we will
slip out at night to sit beneath the stars and listen to their
song."

"Then we can both sleep properly. Speaking
of which," Merry went on, shaking off his somber mood and
returning to his usual light-hearted manner, "Borlas
does not seem to be troubled with dreams. He is fast asleep in
his chair and snoring like an old gaffer."

Boromir cocked his head to one side, listening,
then he remarked, "Master Peregrin
is unusually quiet, too."

"Oh, Pippin has gone off to exchange news
with the doorwardens. He's become very friendly with all the household
guard since we arrived." Merry broke off for a moment, his
attention held by something behind Boromir, then
he exclaimed, "I say, here comes Gil in a hurry!"

Boromir could now hear her familiar step approaching.
"My lord!" she called, as she ran across the wide terrace,
"Letters from Gondor, my lord!"

"Did you see the messenger?" Pippin
cried, breathless with excitement, as he arrived on Gil's heels.
"He must bring word from Aragorn and Faramir!"

"Nay," Boromir said, frowning in thought,
"Aragorn could not have arrived in Minas Tirith so soon."

"From Prince Imrahil, lord." Cool,
dry parchment touched the back of Boromir's hand, as Gil offered
him a scroll. "It bears his seal, not the King's."

Boromir automatically took the letter and ran
his fingers over the seal to assure himself that it was unbroken.
He deftly broke the seal, then held it out to her again and asked,
"There is but the one letter?"

"The one for you, lord,
and… and one for me."

"From Imrahil?"

"Aye."

She sounded awed and more than a little nervous
to be receiving letters from so exalted a person as the Prince
of DolAmroth,
and it occurred to Boromir that this might very well be the first
letter Gil had ever received from anyone. "Then go and read it," he said. "Merry can
do your office this once, and read my letter."

Awe turned to outrage, and she nearly snatched
the scroll from his hand. "Nay, lord, he will not!"

Striving to subdue his grin, Boromir sat back
and waited for his squire to master the contents of his letter.
She took her time, as always, and her voice dropped into the flat,
emotionless tone that betrayed the effort it cost her to read
aloud.

To
Boromir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor, Prince of Anórien.

My
most dear nephew,

Thank
all the Valar that you are returned! I know not where you are as I
write this letter, but I trust that you will come safely
to Edoras and find it awaiting
you, if you are not there already. In such a need, I feel
the leagues between Minas Tirith and Meduseld
a burden as they never were before, and I begrudge the long
days that separate us. Would that I could ride to meet you
and bring you word myself of what I know will give you joy!
But alas, my duty to King, to land, and to that beloved
liege lord who left all Gondor to my care will not allow
it. So a letter must serve.

Here
then, in bare black ink strokes, is the matter. Taleris
is unmasked. The traitor lies in a dungeon beneath the Citadel,
awaiting the King's justice, which will be both swift and
final I doubt not.

Gil paused, and Boromir felt her gaze
upon him. He drew in a long breath, willing himself to calm, but
his heart beat wildly with triumph and his limbs sang with the
urge to hurl him out of his chair, to draw his sword, to carry
him in a single stride to the gates of Minas Tirith that he might
strike the blow that severed Taleris' life and paid him fittingly
for all his treacheries. Only his weakness, and the awareness
of his friends standing all round him, watching him with anxious
concern, kept him from springing to his feet even now in spite
of his wounds.

After a moment of expectant silence, Gil read
on.

Thanks
to Gil and her agents, a letter came into my hands
that condemns him utterly. He swears he had no part
in your intended murder, but he makes no denial of his other
treacheries, speaks not a word in answer to my charges.
He is proud and defiant still, but a week in the dungeon
may humble him. We shall see what face he wears when he
comes before Elessar at last.

I
know you will understand me, Boromir, when I say that I
both long for and dread that day. Taleris is a foul and
treacherous dog, but he is also a friend of many years and
a comrade through many campaigns. My consolation is that
in proving my old friend a traitor, I have likewise proven
my fealty to my liege lord and, I devoutly hope, earned
some measure of forgiveness from my kinsman.'

'When
you departed, you placed upon me a twofold trust – as Steward
to safeguard our people, and as your kinsman to unmask the
traitor who threatened your life and your honor. Both these
trusts I hold as sacred. Both, I deem, I have now fulfilled.
Get you home to Minas Tirith as swiftly as may be. If the
fates of War allow it, I will be here to greet you and to
place the rod of Stewardship in your hands again, where
it belongs.

I
remain ever your loving uncle,

Imrahil,
Prince of DolAmroth

Boromir heard the scrape of heavy
parchment, as Gil let the scroll curl in upon itself, and he held
out his hand for the letter. She laid it across his palm. He closed
his fingers about it, holding in a close, protective clasp the
treasured words. "It is done, then. Taleris is proved a traitor."

"And will die a traitor's death as he deserves,
the filthy cur," Gil said, her voice edged with grim satisfaction.

"As he should!"
Pippin declared hotly. "Taleris will get what's coming to
him when Aragorn reaches Minas Tirith, and I say good riddance."

"Aye," Boromir murmured, "but
I should like the chance to face him once more, to throw his treacheries
in his teeth and show him how completely he has failed. I should
like to stare him down and feel him squirm, one last time. It
was all the pleasure his company ever afforded me."

"I'm sure you can find someone else to terrify
with your inscrutable gaze," Merry said, his voice trembling
on a laugh.

"But no one I despise as I do Taleris."
Turning upon his squire the bandaged gaze that struck fear into
the hearts of so many, he smiled and said, "What of your
letter, Gil? Are you not anxious to read it?"

"Aye, lord. I cannot
think why the Prince would write to me. He can have naught to
say to such as I…"

"Do not stand wondering, you infernal girl,
read it!"

Her voice faltered. "To
you, my lord?"

"Nay, not to me! 'Tis
your letter. Take it away at once, where these inquisitive
halflings cannot pester you and I cannot
distract you with my demands, and read it in peace. I will not
need you again until I am back in my room and Arwen has another meal for you to stuff down my gullet."
When Gil hesitated still, he growled, "Off with you! Be gone!"

She mumbled incoherent thanks and hurried away,
her footsteps fading in the direction of the Hall.

"I wonder why Imrahil did write to her?"
Pippin mused. "And what was that he said about her agents
bringing him the letter?"

"I expect she'll tell us all about it, in
her own time," Merry said reasonably. "She's not nearly
so prickly as she used to be, nor so
close-mouthed. Wearing breeches seems to agree with her."

Boromir gave a disbelieving snort, and Merry
laughed.

"If you ask me, it's not the breeches,"
Pippin said dryly, then he made a whooping
noise, as if something had struck him a hard blow to the ribs,
and he abruptly changed the subject. "Your wine has gone
cold, Boromir, and you're looking decidedly peaked. You need food.
The woman who rules Éomer's kitchens
is a particular friend of mine, so I'm sure I can wheedle a sustaining
bite or two out of her. Enough for all of us."

With that, he strolled off, whistling, leaving
Boromir alone with Merry and the sleeping Borlas.
Merry perched on the edge of Boromir's footstool, being careful
not to jar his injured leg, and together they listened to the
boy's heavy breathing, content to rest quietly in each other's
company. How much time passed Boromir did not try to count. He
was exhausted from the strains and excitement of the day, left
chill and empty by the ebbing of his great tide of emotion upon
hearing the letter, and he briefly wished that he was back in
his bed chamber – smoking fire, stone walls and all.

"How do you feel, Boromir?" Merry asked,
breaking the long quiet.

"I hardly know. I am too weary to take it
all in, and what happens in far off Gondor seems unreal to me
here, on this windy hilltop."

A smile crept into Merry's
voice as he replied, "It will sink in soon enough, and then
it will be all that Gil and I can manage to keep you from leaping
into the saddle and riding off to Minas Tirith as fast as Fedranth
can carry you."

"Mayhap you are right. I count on you to
curb my wilder impulses."

"This news ought to speed your healing,
at least."

"Aye." Boromir
smiled at him and held out his hand. When Merry placed his small
hand in Boromir's much larger one, their fingers clasped warmly,
saying much of friendship and deep loyalty that they did not need
to speak aloud. "And ease my sleep."

"Maybe we can both sleep easier now,"
Merry said quietly.

*** *** ***

Aragorn sat in his kingly chair, his
hands resting upon its carven arms, his eyes fixed on the figure
standing in chains before him. The clear light of an autumn morning
spilled through the tall windows of the tower room, setting the
gems and gold embroidery on the King's garments afire and throwing
the filthy, ragged state of the prisoner's clothing into sharp
relief. The faces of both were impassive, closed, with shuttered
eyes that gave no hint of their thoughts, but where Aragorn's
was washed clean of its travel stains and smoothed by a night
of rest, Taleris' was as lined, dirty and careworn as his robe,
every one of the nights he had spent in Minas Tirith's
darkest dungeon stamped roughly upon his visage.

The great and noble hearts gathered now to witness
Aragorn's judgment upon Taleris were of a kind easily moved to
pity. Faramir, who sat on the King's right hand, was revered through
all Gondor as the most just and merciful of Men. Legolas and Gimli,
standing in the shadows by the cold hearth, were neither cruel
nor vengeful, but generous in all things. And Imrahil, with his
long years of friendship for the prisoner, might well have softened
to Taleris now. The sight of so much wretchedness, in any other
creature, would indeed have moved them all, but Taleris had left
no room in them for aught but anger. His haughty silence and arrogance
before the King he had wronged so deeply hardened their hearts
still further against his wan and twisted face, his heavy chains.

In the lengthening silence,
a many-legged creature, startled by the bright sunlight, crawled
from Taleris' beard and scuttled into the open neck of his surcote.
He twitched uncomfortably but refused to humble himself by lifting
his manacled hands to scrabble at it. Aragorn watched the thing
burrow into the crushed and fouled velvet with interest, then
he raised his eyes once more to the other man's face.

"Have you no greeting to offer your King,
Lord Taleris?" he asked, in a voice as frozen and unyielding
as the peak of Caradhras.

Taleris struggled with himself, clearly undecided
whether or not to dignify the King's presence with his notice,
but outrage subdued pride in the end and he grated, "I owe
you no such courtesy. You call me by my noble title, but you treat
me like the basest villain! Hurling me into an eyeless pit to
gnaw stale crusts and sleep with vermin!" He spat onto the
floor at Imrahil's feet. "The Gondor
I served would not use her lords thus."

Aragorn's mouth twitched in something that was
not a smile. Holding out his hand to Imrahil, he said levelly,
"The letter."

Imrahil placed a small, slender roll of parchment
in Aragorn's hand. The King turned it to show Taleris the broken
seal of blue wax upon it and said, still with no trace of emotion
in his voice, "Your own words give you the lie. Shall I read
them out to you? Have you forgotten what you set down with your
own hand?"

The prisoner clamped his lips shut, summoning
his pride once more to armor him against the King's piercing regard,
and refusing to meet his eyes.

"Who was meant to receive this letter?"
Aragorn asked. When Taleris refused to answer, he tried again.
"What is the name of your confederate among the Haradrim?"
Still he received no answer.

Setting aside the scroll, Aragorn gave weary
sigh and let his gaze drop from Taleris' obdurate face. "You
are a fool, as well as a traitor, I see. Your death is certain,
my lord, but still there is time to mend some of what you have
maimed and earn yourself better than a traitor's end. What say
you? Will you die in shame to protect the enemies of your own
people? Murderers, thieves, marauders?"

"They are not!" Taleris blurted out,
then bit his lip in anger at his own weakness.

"Not murderers and thieves? Are they not,
even now, killing Men of Gondor so they might steal their lands
and their homes?"

"Their people are starving," the old
lord muttered. "They seek land fit for growing the crops
to feed them. You would do no less, were your children weeping
with hunger and dying upon the barren sands."

"So they take at the sword's point what
they might have had for the asking, had they treated with me as
an ally. Nay, I will not pity their weeping children, Taleris,
for they have not pitied ours. Nor will I believe that you aided
the Haradrim out of pity or to right
a wrong. What were you paid for your services? What had the starving
Men of Harad to offer the King's deputy
that would tempt him to treachery? Was it gold?"

Taleris let his gaze slide away from Aragorn's
to roam the circle of faces turned upon him. He licked his lips
nervously but said nothing. After a long moment, Faramir answered
for him.

"Vengeance, I deem. Long has he plotted
to rob my brother of his office and dignities, in payment for
imagined wrongs against our father. And
you, Elessar, were meant to suffer for your loyalty to him,
and for claiming the crown that was yours by right of blood."

"Is that it, Taleris? Were you promised
Boromir's blood and my crown?"

"I raised no hand against you or your Steward,"
Taleris snarled, his fragile composure rapidly crumbling. "You
cannot take my head, because a blind fool lost himself in the
wilderness, and his harlot, that beggar's by-blow who calls herself
a squire, points her claw at me and screams that I am to blame!"

"Peace, Taleris," Aragorn said, warningly.
"This has naught to do with Gil,
or with Boromir's capture by the Orcs."

"Naught to do!Naught to do!"
He threw back his head and uttered a bark of laughter. "What
cares King Elessar for aught but his precious Steward? He holds
all Gondor as naught beside the love of that slinking cur, that
blind bastard…"

"Enough!" Imrahil crossed to Taleris
in a single stride, whipping out his dagger and pressing it up
hard beneath the prisoner's chin. "Speak another word about
my kinsman, and I will cut your lying throat!"

Taleris' eyes rolled wildly to where Imrahil's
face hovered so close to his own, and a ghastly smile stretched
his lips. "Aye, that is the way to keep your head, my friend.
Good, good! But do not forget the harlot, for 'tis she who holds
the dog's leash! Speak sweetly of her, too, if you would escape
his bite!"

"Is he mad?" Gimli
demanded of Aragorn, "or does he counterfeit to stay your
justice?"

"Mad, I think," Faramir said, heavily.

"Nay, only desperate," Aragorn retorted.
"He sees his own death approaching and must strike out at
us, squirt his venom in our ears, while he still can."

Taleris looked to the King, his head forced up
by the pressure of Imrahil's knife,
his breath hissing through his bared teeth. Some measure of rationality
crept back into his eyes, as Aragorn continued,

"This is the first time that you have spoken
the truth to me, is it not, Taleris?"

The prisoner took a rasping breath and tried
to throw off Imrahil's hands, uttering a wordless growl.

"Your words sicken me, but I cannot condemn
you for speaking them, when I have waited so long to hear the
truth from your lips."

"You… you do not condemn me?" He went
suddenly limp in Imrahil's grasp, as
the Prince took his knife away, and his voice cracked with disbelief.
"I may yet live?"

"Nay. Your life
is forfeit." A shudder went through Taleris' body, and his
eyes dropped to the floor, avoiding Aragorn's gaze. "But
you will not die for your hatred of Boromir, or for the foul slanders
you heap upon him and his faithful squire."

Staring at Taleris' bent, grey head with saddened
eyes, he went on, "You believe that I care for naught but
my Steward's love, and you blame his misfortunes for your approaching
death, but you are wrong. I know you will not believe it; you
will die in bitterness, convinced that Boromir is to blame, and
lay yet another crime at his door as you quit the circles of this
world. But I say to you now that it is your betrayal of Gondor
that costs you your life, not your hatred of Gondor's
Steward. And for that reason, I offer you still the chance to
mend some of the damage you have done and earn a measure of mercy
in return."

"Mercy?"

"An honorable death, the
preservation of your estates and your family. That is all
I have to offer you."

A long silence answered his words, broken when
Taleris asked in a low, despairing tone, "What must I do?"

"Answer my questions."

The prisoner took a deep, sobbing breath and
blew it out on a sigh that seemed to come from his very boots.
"Ask what you will."

"Who was meant to receive this letter?"

"I do not know his right name. He went by
Gabril, and he concealed himself in the City as a carter, but
he is a great chieftain among the Haradrim,
I deem."

"He is not the man you met in the tavern
to give the letter? The man we have in the dungeons even now?"

"Nay. He went south
when the news of Boromir's capture by the Orcs
came to us. The man you hold is a messenger only."

"What other letters have you written?"

"None but what you have." Lifting his
head as if it were too heavy for his neck, he nodded toward the
scroll that lay on the table before Aragorn. "That,
and the one I brought from Ethir Anduin when I returned to the
City in the spring."

"You destroyed Ciryon's
original letter."

"Aye." His
head dropped again.

"What of the second letter Ciryon sent?
The one that arrived after I had departed on my Progress?"

"I destroyed it."

"And the third?"

"That I could not destroy.
The girl saw it in my hands and spoke with the messenger who brought
it. I knew she would tell Boromir of it, so I gave it to him."

"That was when you decided to slay him."

"I did not." It was a measure of how
far Taleris had fallen that he showed no flash of anger or of
defiance at Aragorn's words. He spoke in the same beaten tone
in which he had answered every question, without lifting his eyes
from the floor. "Gabril hatched that plot, thinking to sap
the strength of Gondor's soldiers with
the fall of their beloved Captain. I told him he was a fool, that
Boromir's death would only hasten your return and his doom. He…
called me a coward and spat on my counsel."

"You did not warn Boromir of the threat
to his life?"

"I could not." He hesitated for a moment,
then added, gruffly, "I would not. For I hate him, and I would not speak
a word to save him from death. That is the truth, my lord
King. All the truth and all my guilt. Do with me what you will."

Aragorn sat for a very long time in silence,
staring at Taleris' bent head, his eyes hooded and his face an
unreadable mask. No one in the roomed dared move and break the
stillness save Taleris himself, who lifted a hand to scratch at
the vermin on his skin. The grating of his chains when he lifted
his hands sounded unnaturally loud, but he seemed not to notice.

At last Aragorn stirred, shifting forward in
his chair to place his hand on the map that covered the table
before him. "In three days' time, I sail for Ethir Anduin
with the armies of Minas Tirith and Anórien. You will sail with me, my lord."

Taleris looked up, startled.

"I want this Gabril, and you will find him
for me. That is your task. When it is done, you will have won
your measure of mercy."

The old man stared into his King's eyes reading
the promise in them, then he bent his
head in an awkward bow. "My lord King."

Flicking a glance at Imrahil, Aragorn said, "Get
him a bath and fresh garments. He may sleep in his own chambers,
with a suitable guard."

Imrahil bowed. "And the
chains, my lord?"

Aragorn's face hardened. "He wears them."

With another bow, Imrahil clasped Taleris' arm
and drew him toward the door. Taleris shuffled along with him,
looking neither left nor right, his shoulders
sagging with a weariness that had naught to do with the chains
he wore.

When the door had shut behind them, Aragorn sank
back in his great chair and put a hand up to cover his eyes. In
that moment, he looked as broken and exhausted as his prisoner.

"My lord?"
Faramir said, pushing a cup of wine toward him.

Aragorn dropped his hand and took the wine, drinking
deeply.

"If we are to depart in three days' time…"
Faramir began, but a glance from Aragorn silenced him.

"I go, Faramir, and those of my friends
who would fight beside me again." He looked to where Gimli
and Legolas stood, catching their solemn nods. "You must
remain in Minas Tirith."

Hurt and disbelief flooded the Prince's face
for a moment, then he mastered himself and said, with admirable calm, "Imrahil
is not to remain as Steward in Boromir's place?"

"Imrahil has done his duty and held himself
aloof when war threatened his own borders. Now his people fight
under Ciryon's banner, and he longs
to fight with them. I cannot deny him that, when he has done me
such service."

"Nay."Faramir's shoulders drooped fractionally. "You cannot."

Laying a hand on his friend's arm, Aragorn said
quietly, "You do not love war, Faramir,"

"But I love Gondor and Gondor's
King. I would draw my sword with yours, Elessar, and defend what
we love."

"You will do me better service to stay here,
in the Steward's chair, and rule Gondor in my stead until I return.
From here, you can direct your own troops in South
Ithilien, while safeguarding
the northern marches of our realm." He smiled, his grey eyes
shining with sudden warmth. "And Minas Tirith is much closer
to Rohan than is Ethir Anduin."

Faramir's eyes widened.
"Rohan?"

"Close enough to allow for visits, when
your duties are light."

A wide smile lit his face. "I thank you,
Elessar. Gladly will I sit in the Steward's chair and hold it
against my brother's return."

Aragorn pushed himself forward in his chair,
his eyes going to the map spread on the table before him, once
more filled with the purpose and strength that his friends knew
so well. "Then let us to work. We have a war to win."

*** *** ***

"'Tis only
a step, my lord," Arwen chided.

One more step. So she said now, but when he had
taken that step, there would be another, and then another, and
his exhausted limbs cried aloud in protest at this abuse. Gritting
his teeth against a sour rejoinder that he could not spare the
breath to utter, Boromir merely grunted and adjusted his grip
on the staff he clutched in his right hand. His palm, slick with
sweat, slipped on the polished wood, and he had a brief, hideous
vision of his leg buckling as his crutch slithered from his hand.
The vivid memory of tearing flesh and tortured muscle struck him,
and Orcish laughter rang in his ears,
sapping the last of his strength.

"Trust me. I will not let you fall."
Arwen's soft words banished the harsher voices in his head
and told him that his Queen had, once again, read his thoughts
with unsettling ease. She reached up to clasp his left hand, where
it rested on her shoulder.

Leaning most of his weight on Arwen's
deceptively slender shoulders, Boromir lifted his sound foot from
the floor and hazarded a step. As he dragged his injured leg forward,
he growled, "The leg will hold. I know it will. 'Tis
the rest of my body that betrays me.Ye
gods!" He halted, swaying, and let go of Arwen's
shoulder to clutch at his brow. "My head reels so that I
cannot find the floor, and my limbs are weak as water."

"You have been too long abed. Come, lean
on me." She pulled his arm across her shoulders once more
and slipped an arm about his waist to steady him. "I have
set a chair beneath the window, and when you are safely in it,
I will open the shutters. It rains again today, so you cannot
venture out of doors, but you may sit in the wintry blast from
the window until you have cleansed the foulness of smoke and stone
from your lungs and are rested enough to walk back to your bed."

Bolstered by the promise of the taste of sweet,
clean air, Boromir once more forced his limbs to move. He had
spoken the truth when he said that he knew his leg would hold.
It had borne his weight often enough in the Orc
den and would not fail him now, he was certain. But his long weeks
of imprisonment and his longer illness had left him in a pitiable
state – his muscles trembling and his heart laboring within the
fragile cage of his ribs – so that his tiny prison of a room seemed,
in his extremity, longer than Éomer
King's great hall. It took every ounce of pride and determination
he possessed to cross it, and he felt as though he had been locked
in mortal combat for countless hours when he heard Arwen
say,

"One step more."

A gasping laugh was torn from his throat. "So
you said half a hundred steps ago!"

Even as he spoke, he stumbled into the chair
and nearly pitched over it. Dropping his staff, he reached for
the chair's arms and, helped by Arwen,
sank gratefully into it.

"You should not doubt me so, my lord,"
the Queen chided.

"Never again. And
never again will I move from this spot." He could feel the
chill of the stone wall to his left, and he let himself fall sideways
against it, propping his shoulders and head against its welcome
solidity. "I will sleep here tonight. I have had less comfortable
beds."

"When you are weary enough, you will think
better of it, I deem."

"You are as bad as Gil…ah!" He broke
off with a cry of pain, as Arwen lifted
his injured leg to rest on a footstool. Then he groaned in relief
and sagged more heavily against the wall, muttering, "As
bad as Gil, always certain that you know what I want, paying no
heed to what I say."

"Why should we pay heed to arrant foolishness?"

Boromir reflected bitterly that the Queen sounded
far too much like his squire for comfort, but he kept his thoughts
to himself. Arwen had wrapped him closely in a heavy fur and was now throwing
open the wooden shutters that covered the window. Turning eagerly
toward the sound, Boromir felt a rush of cold, wet, rain-scented
wind against his face, and he smiled in genuine delight. He drew
in a deep, glad breath and let it out on a sigh, banishing pain,
exhaustion, haunting dreams and demons of memory with the lingering
taste of smoke.

With a rustle of light fabric, Arwen
sat down upon the edge of his footstool and leaned close to speak
in her softest, warmest tone. "It eases my heart to see you
smile, Boromir."

He turned to her, startled, a question in his
face.

"I take no pleasure in tormenting you."

"Your company is never a torment, lady."

She laughed, and for a moment, Boromir fancied
that he sat on a terrace in Imladris,
with an Elvish rain falling on leaves
of silver in the valley below. "Now I know how to tame your
temper. A breath of fresh air, and you
are all courtesy."

He tried to smile in return, but chagrin made
him shift uncomfortably and turn away from her keen gaze. "I
am sorry for my churlishness. I would not have you think I am
ungrateful, or that I do not know why you suffer with my fits
and tempers."

"Why?"

"For Aragorn's sake.Because he asked it of you."

"Aye, but had he not asked, still I would
brave your rages to aid in your healing." She rested a light
hand on Boromir's knee, taking care not to touch the painful swelling
about his wound. "Are we not friends in our own right, Boromir?"

"I hope so, lady."

"Then believe that my care of you is as
much for friendship's sake as for love of my lord."

This time, Boromir's smile came easily, and he
made no attempt to avoid the touch of her gaze. "Believe
that I am grateful, even when I forget the courtesy due my friend."

"I do."

Satisfied, Boromir let his head sink back against
the wall and the tension drain from his battered body. As the
winter wind off the plains soothed him, his mind wandered from
his stone prison on the hilltop toward the distant city where
his heart dwelt and his King labored without his Steward to support
him. His hand strayed unconsciously to the gem that hung at his
breast, and he fingered it, as if its touch bound him to Aragorn
and gave him some small part in the mighty deeds to come.

Arwen saw the gem in
his hand and understood at once where his thoughts had flown.
"Think you he has reached the WhiteCity by now?"

"Aye." Boromir
paused, conjuring a vision he had never seen with his eyes but
had long treasured in his imagination. "Perhaps he is, even
now, seated in his study behind the great table, with Faramir
at his side, tallying lists, signing dispatches, marshalling his
captains, juggling the thousand bits of parchment, steel and flesh
that make up an army on the march. Readying
for war."

"I look daily for a messenger from Gondor,
bringing word from my lord, though I know it cannot come so soon,"
Arwen murmured wistfully.

"He will not forget us. The messenger will
come." Holding up the Star so that it dangled by its chain
between them, he added with a smile, "I have his promise."

"The Star of the Dúnedain,"
she breathed, echoes of deep memory and great wonder in her voice.
"'Tis a mighty gift."

"More than you, or even Aragorn himself,
might guess. It has given me hope in the midst of despair and
lighted my very darkest paths."

"Hope was ever Aragorn's gift."

"Estel he is called,"
Boromir closed his hand tightly about the gem, clasping it to
his breast, "which is Hope."

"You speak the Elvish
tongue?"

"Naught but the few words my brother has
pounded into my head," he said ruefully, wishing now, for
this lady's sake, that he had listened more closely to Faramir's
teachings.

"Know you the word for star?"

Boromir thought for a moment, recalling the names
and legends told him in his youth, certain that he had heard the
Elvish word for star and ought to remember
it, but it eluded him.

Before he could answer, Arwen
rose to her feet and moved around his chair toward the door. Pausing
beside him, she laid a hand on his shoulder, bent close and murmured,
"It is gil."

Boromir sat in startled silence as the Queen
walked to the door and opened it. Halting on the threshold, she
turned back to add, "Aragorn spoke true when he said that
you could summon the stars at will, for you have one always about
you."

Then Arwen was gone,
and Boromir was left alone to ponder her words. He tried to fathom
his Queen's purpose in telling him the meaning of Gil's name,
but he could not focus on this question for long. His thoughts
kept turning to Gil herself, to the star that had walked at his
side through his long darkness, lighting his steps and warming
his heart with her steadfast love. For Gil did love him; he knew
this, though he had not examined it before or considered the shape
that love took. It had not mattered to him, so long as she was
beside him. Of the three friends he valued most in this world
– Aragorn, Merry and Gil – she was the one most with him, most
necessary to his comfort. He thought and spoke least of her, not
because she was least among them, but because she was always at
his side and need never be missed or regretted. And the one time
he had left her behind, riding off into the world without her,
a light had gone out for him. The light of his
constant star.

For an uncounted time, Boromir sat alone at his
window, holding the Star of the Dúnedain
in his hand, waiting for night to fall and the stars of the heavens
to begin their song, and wondering how he could have been so blind.

*** *** ***

Night lay
thickly over the vale of Anduin. Shreds of cloud blew fitfully
across the moon, shrouding her light and casting the moving waters
into shadow, only to blow away again and leave her shining silver
above the huddled tents and brooding fortresses that lined the
River's banks. On the eastern shore, stretched in a ragged line
from Poros to the head of the Ethir
Anduin, were the garrisons built by Ciryon's troops to hold back the Haradrim.
Torches burned atop ramparts of wood, and armored men patrolled
the walls, keeping tireless watch on the dim, featureless lands
stretching endlessly to the east.

On the western shore, the Men of Gondor camped
beneath their many banners. Soldiers from Lossarnach,
Lebennin and Ithilien, whose lands lay
along the River. Still more from farther west, summoned
to fight in aid of their neighbors and to protect their own lands
from invasion: Dor-en-Ernil, Belfelas,
Lamedon, and the Knights of DolAmroth, together with the lesser kingdoms
and fiefdoms under their sway. The men slept in tents or pavilions,
in cots made of wood and turf, clustered around fires where guards
warmed their hands and stared eastward toward their unseen enemy.

In the very darkest hour of the night, when men
slept without dreams, the peace was rudely shattered. A garrison
fort, near the center of the defenders' line, erupted in flame
as burning arrows shot over the walls and hoards of southrons
in soot-darkened armor poured after them. Weapons clashed, men
screamed in rage and pain, and the wooden palisade, soaked with
oil by the wily Haradrim, threw flames
hundreds of feet into the sky.

This was a long-awaited signal. At the sight
of those towering flames, all along the eastern bank of Anduin
the Haradrim flung themselves upon the
forts and slew the soldiers of Ethir Anduin.

Across the River, men awoke suddenly to the familiar
clash of arms in the distance. Horns blew a wild alarm, and soldiers
reached blindly for their weapons, stumbling out of their tents
to stand, amazed, their faces turned in horror to the false-dawn
that blazed in the east. Down to the shore they streamed, still
carrying swords and lances in the vain hope of lending some aid
to the doomed garrisons on the far bank, and there they halted,
thwarted by the wide expanse of swiftly-moving water. Some waded
into the shallows, brandishing their weapons, peering fruitlessly
into the darkness that shrouded the river.

For an agonizing time, naught moved upon the
water. The soldiers who had tumbled from their beds without boots
or cloaks were shivering with the cold, and those who had ventured
into the water had clambered back onto the shore to join their
comrades, when an archer among the men of Lamedon, toward the northern end of the line, sent up a cry.

"Boats!Boats
upon the water!"

A howl from the far shore announced that the
Haradrim had seen the boats as well, and a storm of arrows
hissed over the water. Men plunged into the shallows, some firing
arrows uselessly at the enemy on the far bank, while others struck
out for the approaching boats. Soon others, whose eyes were not
as sharp as the archer's, could see the first boats struggling
against the currents of Anduin the Great to reach safety.

They came in ragged groups, huddling together
for comfort if not for safety, fleeing in whatever craft they
had managed to find in the retreat from the burning forts. Wounded,
exhausted, hollow-eyed men pulled at the oars with a strength
born of desperation, while those too sorely injured to help lay
moaning and bleeding between their feet, and they cried out in
relief when they saw the hands of friends reaching out of the
night to tow them ashore.

As the sun rose at last in a lowering haze of
smoke and fume, a messenger on a lathered, foundering horse clattered
into the courtyard of Ciryon's great
tower. Ciryon himself greeted the man as he slid from the saddle
and took the message tube from his hand, breaking the seal without
bothering to withdraw into the tower.

The red morning light stained the paper in his
hands as if with blood, the blood of men slain in the night by
a foul and treacherous enemy. A fitting light
by which to read the news that his garrisons were destroyed, his
men slaughtered and the last defense of his lands gone.
Only Anduin now stood between the Haradrim
and the sweet fields of Gondor.

Rolling the parchment loosely in his fist, he
turned to his Captain-General and said, "War is upon us,
Beryan, my friend."

"Will the King come, think you?"

Ciryon shrugged and smiled wearily. "I pray
he does, but with or without him, the Haradrim
will come. War is upon us."

Turning for the tower, Ciryon draped an arm about
his friend's shoulders and walked with him up the broad steps
to the wide, oaken door. He walked like a man with a great burden
upon him, but he did not falter. The enemy was at his very gates,
and he had a war to win.